


Norbury

by pimpmypaws



Series: Norbury [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Mentions of past drug use, safeword
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpmypaws/pseuds/pimpmypaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt: Sherlock/anyone, a BDSM situation in which the dom ends up using the safeword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Norbury

**Author's Note:**

> Companion to my fic "Dear Mr. Holmes", but you don't have to read one to understand the other.

Sherlock’s body is pale. It’s not surprising, not considering he’s always covered neck to toe in expensive coats and suits. But that white expanse is still worth stopping to study. The worst of his scarring, an inevitable part of the job he’s supposedly married to, is disguised by the very paleness of the skin it criss-crosses, but Lestrade can make out thin lines here and there. Track marks inside his arms. Lestrade tries not to think about those.

That oddly beautiful, almost ethereal, body kneels at Lestrade’s feet. His head is ducked, studying the carpet his knees are spread on. He doesn’t move a muscle, not even a twitch of his shoulders despite the fact that his arms have been cuffed behind his back for almost an hour now. His pale skin is marred by red stripes and deep bruises. If Lestrade hadn’t been the one to make them he would have been able to tell from their width that it had been a belt that made them.

Lestrade looks down at the top of Sherlock’s head. His sweat has cooled on his shirt, making it stick to his skin, but he doesn’t remove it. It’s part of the game, him standing fully dressed over a naked and bound Sherlock. 

This wasn’t his decision, not really. At a certain point it had become impossible to ignore Sherlock’s drug habits. He was duty bound to do something. Either he had to arrest the damn man, and Sherlock’s mouth had twitched at that threat, or extract promises that it would end. At first it had gone well, until Sherlock rang, actually rang, Lestrade in the dead of the night with his voice twitching.

After that it became clear that if Sherlock couldn’t have his drugs, and Lestrade was insistent on that point, he would need a new distraction. That conversation had been awkward. Worse than awkward. Sherlock had curled himself into a ball, his dressing gown pulled tightly around his increasingly slender body, face pressed into the back of the sofa. Lestrade had sat in an arm chair opposite. The flat was small, dingy, in a bad part of town. It was too easy to get in trouble around there.

Neither of them had spoken since Lestrade had entered the flat. Surely Sherlock was aware of his presence, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Lestrade truly didn’t have the time to sit in Sherlock’s flat all night, but he was trying his very best to forget about the warm bed waiting for him at home.

“I suppose one of us should say something,” Sherlock finally said. His voice was muffled by the cushion pushed against his face.

Lestrade leaned forward, bracing his elbows against his knees. “You said you needed a distraction.”

He hadn’t realized Sherlock was capable of moving so quickly, but Sherlock sat up and spun around to face Lestrade before he even registered that the man had moved at all. Sherlock’s grey eyes bore deep into Lestrade’s own, making him shift a little uncomfortably despite himself, but he didn’t look away.

“I want to help you,” Lestrade said slowly, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.

Sherlock nodded. He pulled his dressing gown closer around himself, elbows tucked into his sides. For the briefest of moments his gaze flickered over Lestrade’s body, something unexpected showing in his eyes, before they returned to Lestrade’s face. “Have you heard of BDSM?” He asked. If it hadn’t been such a serious moment, Lestrade would have questioned the slight change in Sherlock’s expression.

While Lestrade’s first reaction was of shock, he tried his best to disguise it. Under normal circumstances Sherlock would never miss it, but the brilliant mind was slipping with every moment. He took a moment to breathe, then nodded. “You want me to have sex with you?” He finally asked.

“No, I want you to beat me,” Sherlock said, tone no different than if he’d asked Lestrade to nip down to the shops for milk. “Physical sensation has proven in the past, if intense enough, to be a more than successful distraction. As a teenager I used to box, but I fear in my current state it would be an unsafe venture. With you I would not have to worry about lasting injury.”

At first Lestrade had protested, but Sherlock could be very convincing when he wanted to be.

That was almost six months ago. Sherlock has been clean since, not a single slip. Lestrade looks down at the man kneeling at his feet and almost feels pride for that. He doesn’t enjoy these sessions. Physically, of course, he can’t help but react. No matter what Sherlock had said that first night, there couldn’t help but be a sexual element to this, and he gave in the very first time Sherlock had begged to be fucked. But he doesn’t enjoy inflicting pain. Even when Sherlock is at his most infuriating, Lestrade balks at the idea of really hurting him.

Tonight, Sherlock had begged for it. Lestrade cuffed him, pushed him onto his knees, and cracked his belt over Sherlock’s pale, smooth shoulders until the detective slumped forward onto the carpet, face mashed into the dirty fibres, body wracked with sobs. Now Lestrade stands over him, looking down at the man he had just beaten to tears, almost horrified at himself. He tries not to show it, tries to be that domineering figure that Sherlock needs, but he can’t help flinching at the very sight of the bruises blooming over Sherlock’s back.

“Enough?” He asks quietly.

Sherlock shakes his head, but keeps his eyes down.

Lestrade wants to kneel, too, take Sherlock’s face in his hands and cradle the bruised man against his body until the pain stops. But he doesn’t. He takes a moment to lock those emotions away and clears his throat. “What’s the safeword?” He prompts.

“Norbury,” Sherlock whispers. He hazards a quick glance up at Lestrade before dropping his eyes to the carpet again. “Please, more.”

Now Lestrade does get down on his knees. He leans in close to Sherlock’s back, touching the bruises there lightly with his fingertips. At Sherlock’s pained hiss and automatic jerk away, Lestrade withdraws and gets back to his feet.

“I won’t hit you anymore,” he says. He knows he hasn’t caused any permanent harm, that he hasn’t scarred Sherlock, hasn’t broken his bones, but those bruises. Those welts. He can’t do it anymore.

Sherlock is silent for a moment before he speaks again, his voice gruff. “Then fuck me.”

“I’m…” Lestrade coughs and stares desperately around the room. “I’m not sure I can.”

He isn’t expecting it when Sherlock leans forward and nuzzles his face into Lestrade’s groin. He jumps at the contact as Sherlock mouths at his cock through his wool trousers. Lestrade can’t help the way his blood flows south at the promise of that wet mouth on him. Pushing Sherlock away momentarily, he unbuttons his trousers and shoves them down, followed by his pants.

Sherlock’s mouth is on him almost before his hands have gotten out of the way. It isn’t long before Lestrade is fully hard and he rocks gently into Sherlock’s eager mouth. Lestrade gasps and watches as Sherlock takes as much as he can. His hands curl in Sherlock’s hair, gripping, tugging, trying not to shove Sherlock's head down further onto his cock, but he can’t stop his hips from snapping forward once, twice.

Sherlock yanks back suddenly, letting Lestrade’s cock fall from his mouth. He looks up at Lestrade with hungry eyes. “Fuck me, please, God, just fuck me,” he says, his voice hoarse.

The rasp in his voice, the way his eyes dart up from Lestrade’s cock to his face. Lestrade can’t resist it. 

“Okay,” He says, his voice no longer as controlled as he’d hoped it would be. 

He drops to his knees behind Sherlock, placing a single kiss on the back of the bound man’s neck. He rests one hand on Sherlock’s hip, uses the other to push him down until the side of his face is rubbing on the carpet. The position won’t be comfortable for long, the strain on Sherlock’s neck will get to be too much, so he slicks himself quickly with the lube he’d shoved in his jacket pocket before leaving his flat and pushes in. 

Beneath him, Sherlock’s body seizes up. He can’t help blanketing himself over Sherlock’s back, listening with all his might for any sign that Sherlock needs him to stop. When it doesn’t come, he straightens up slightly, wrapping one hand over Sherlock’s left shoulder and using it to pull his bruised body back onto his cock. Sherlock is tight around him, hot, and he rolls his hips forward more quickly than he really means to. Sherlock writhes beneath him, hands twisting in the cuffs still pulled behind his back. His fingers grasp onto nothing, tickling at Lestrade’s stomach.

Lestrade’s mind clouds over as he yanks Sherlock back against him. He can hear the moans, the quickly gasped breaths, but he concentrates on his own pleasure, the sensation of fucking into Sherlock’s body rough and quick. He knows how Sherlock wants it, that he wants to feel used. His ears are filled with his own panting, now blocking out everything else in the room as he feels that flood of sensation approaching.

His free hand wanders from Sherlock’s hip, sliding across his smooth stomach to grasp Sherlock’s cock. It’s that, the feel of Sherlock soft in his hand, that brings his mind back to the body beneath his. He stops thrusting abruptly, no matter how badly his hips want to keep moving.

“Sherlock?” He asks, leaning forward once more. Sherlock had turned his head so his forehead was braced against the carpet, tucked under slightly so Lestrade has to tilt to the side to see his face. Sherlock’s eyes are red, his face scrunched up to stop the tears from escaping. It seems to be a lifetime before Sherlock even notices that Lestrade is watching him, and when he does his whole body begins to shake, the tears now falling freely.

“Fuck!” Lestrade swears, feeling his stomach drop. “Norbury, fucking…Sherlock, Norbury.”

He pulls out, trying to be gentle and fumbles on the carpet for the key to the handcuffs. Sherlock continues to tremble and turns his head to the side, heaving in great breaths as Lestrade pulls the cuffs free. 

“Sherlock, it’s okay,” Lestrade says. He eases Sherlock down onto his side on the rough carpet, spooning up behind him as he pulls his knees into his chest. Lestrade tucks his nose into the crease between Sherlock neck and shoulder, hands running over the beaten and trembling body. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyes are hard as he turns his head to look at Lestrade.

“I didn’t ask you to stop.”


End file.
